a tired bloom

Intrinsic twists make effortless turns. Fabricated notions stacked up neatly, looking for a place to hide. It’s a room full of seven; all cards out on the table. ‘Go fish’ said Giovanni, his crude box haircut shining greasy under a rusted pewter light. Smoky tendrils shroud the scene, catching the tension in the atmosphere between white whirls. Luciana rolled her eyes, ‘You said that last time,' her eyes slanted bold and full of vigor, hair matching fire. 'and so I tried it and you slapped my cigar out of my hand as I reached towards the pile.’  ‘Luciana, you are so full of shit.’ Tom said. He was pretty plain, couldn’t scare a mouse with his compacted face sucked inbred. ‘Tom, no one asked you anything, yet you continue to produce these ideas that no one really cares for. Except for toilets, they’re alright, I don’t mind them.’ said Akachi, smirking a blinding gleam against gradient opaque skin. ‘Guys, what if we..’ Cecilia stretched out from the furthest end of the ...

Dehydrated corpuses, those capitulating dead flair, encircle the tired mind, lascivious when thinking of boundaries and limitations. Sleek feathered dust mites crawl, carrying an agonizing hubris over a yolky film; eyes a horizon spin an array of explosive shadow and shade through slotted capillaries. Trapped in a familiar schism. Vertigo takes over. No cell is safe. A rabbit flits between gravestones, leaving behind a trail of noxious fumes. Gashed up and bleeding, Melody’s sour disposition plastered to the tune of clarity. Ready for a show. Climbing the hill. Grasping at straws. Rattle the bars. Tangled lace unfurls. Down. Further. Furthest. The pit is warm and friendly, even a little courageous. In the centre is a red tunnel, she is in the centre. Maybe she had a sister. Maybe she had a mother. Tumbling down naked. Waiting for the rapture. ‘Hey’ she repeatedly flicked open and closed the cap of her zippo lighter, nervous left leg shaking the graze on her knee. ‘It’s been a w...

PART I BEFORE THE MELTDOWN i With every waking moment, in every oblivion, there is an awareness so damp that it slips even as the sun beats down upon the disintegrated terrain of yesterday. Sullied by long decomposed cartilage, a landscape outstretched across several continents comprised mainly of a sedimentary type of nostalgia had been rolled earthen and shut solid. Now, trodden over for centuries by generations of blissfully unaware children, obsessed with empty glory and prone to sensory deceit, there is nothing of sustenance left. The final kinetic shudder ever recorded had rustled the wind out of perception, pushing hot air into alleyways, causing buildings to shudder an electric and vibrant flavour the colour of poison out into the streets. It is from this scattered rubble our companionship had formed. Oppressive were the diffused remnants, somewhere they had even managed to reach a pack of howling wolves out in the middle of the tundra. Bloodshot eyes prowled reeds cov...